As Some Like It
by Artesania Chaos
Summary: Inspired by watching the play "As You Like It", I decided to *gasp* rewrite the whole thing, only altering it where I want it to be. Some interesting gender switches, a bit of humor, it's all in the game of...this is love? First chapter--a bit of violen
1. Oliver, Orlando, Adam: I remember, Adam,...

Being attacked by a plot bunny after seeing this play, I had to rewrite the play and mess it up a bit. PG13 only for slightly mature themes, and in this chapter, a bit of violence. Slash later on!

Please R+R!

~Artesania

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It was a usual kind of night—one where there's an inky black sky and glowing stars and such. The usual birds flying around, wreaking havoc on various rooftops, disturbing the usual rich, old neighbors who ground diamonds like stars into their sparkling Italian water, directly imported in a private jet, mind you. Yes, it was definitely a usual sort of night in this unusual neighborhood. 

The only thing seemingly different was the flickering light in an old cabin at the lip of a forest, dwarfed by a looming mansion. That is, there was no light. Orlando, the usual occupant of this sad cabin, wasn't sitting in the dark. Instead, his silhouette could be seen faintly flitting about in a room in the mansion, no doubt with several glasses of sparkling Italian water directly imported by a private jet with diamond dust settling on the bottom sitting stiffly on the desk in this room. And there he was, a young fellow, pale gold hair, obviously unbrushed, flopping about his tired eyes, closing as strained hands automatically arranged the papers on the desk. He blinked and looked over his shoulder as an old man entered the room, bearing a box of more paperwork to be arranged. Orlando sighed, and tucked a long lock of gold behind his ear. 

"I remember, Adam," he said wearily, addressing the old man, "that it was on this desk that my father, Sir Rowland de Boise, did sign the papers of his will." The old man nodded, and started laboriously lifting the papers out of the box. "In it, you know, was the vivid expression of commandment that Oliver, my eldest brother, would give me the couple thousand dollars my father—our father—left me. But where is this money?" His fingers angrily tapped the pile nearest to him. "In his pocket."

Adam moved painfully towards the youth, and rested his toil-weary hand on Orlando's back. "Dear Orlando," he began softly. "It is true that Oliver has maintained this money in his possession, but wait, master, just wait. He'll come about his senses some day."

"Yes," Orlando countered bitterly. "When it is all spent."

"Come, good Orlando," Adam said patiently. "Be of good heart in these matters."

Orlando nodded stiffly, still frustrated but holding back. 

Suddenly, the door flew open. In came Oliver, a brown-haired man of tallish stature, sporting a fine black suit, but even the pads in the shoulders of the suit couldn't conceal his stiff lankiness. "Now, Orlando!" Exclaimed the man, furrowing his eyebrows. "What make you here?" 

"Nothing, brother. I am not taught to make anything." Orlando glared at him, stopping him in is tracks. 

"Call you me brother?" said his brother, regaining his composure and starting towards him. "I specifically told you—"

Something inside Orlando finally snapped, and he pounced, the strength of years of mistreatment in his body, knocking Oliver to the carpeted floor. "You are my brother!" he screamed, temples throbbing, "and were there twenty brothers betwixt us, I have as much of my father in me as you!"

"What, boy??" Oliver struggled to stand again, only to be held down by furious brother. 

"I have been stifled for too long, and now the spirit of my father grows strong in me!" Orlando paused, eyes still narrowed, hands still gripping Oliver's shoulders. His chest heaved and he began again. "I demand you give me equality."

"You're insane!"

"Maybe, after all these years of being treated like a peasant under my own roof!" Orlando moved his hand to his brother's throat. Oliver's hazel eyes widened, petrified, disbelieving. Orlando smirked at the sight, then let him go, watching him stumble to his feet. Blood dripped from the older man's nose, staining his shirt. "Listen—If you will not grant me equality, then give me my share of our father's will. I'll go buy my fortune."

On his feet again, Oliver brushed his coat angrily. "And what will you do what that is gone, beg? Be off!" He looked about, and threw a pen at the retreating rush of blond. He spotted Adam, shaking and fearful, and spat at him. "Go with him, you old dog."

Adam quickly hobbled away, but stopped at the door, resting his hand on the doorknob. "Is 'old dog' my reward? God be with my old master—he would not have spoke such a word." Oliver snapped his gaze from the desk to the old man again, and rushed at him. The door closed, and Oliver was left holding his bruised face and howling. He fell to his knees, restraining pained tears. Suddenly, his hands dropped. An expression of malicious delight danced onto his agonized face, and he jumped to his feet, reaching for the phone. 

"I'll not give him his money," Oliver muttered, flipping through a phone directory. "I'll give him his death." He scanned down a page with his finger. The manicured hand stopped at a box reading:

Charles

Professional wrestler

Specializing in ridding one of bothersome family members. 

1-800-CHARLESRULES

CALL NOW

He grinned, white teeth gleaming. Swiping his hand across his nose, he picked up the receiver, then started dialing rapidly…

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What on earth is Oliver up to? Is Orlando doomed? How big of a pit has the blondie dug himself into? This and more answered in the next chapter of—

AS SOME LIKE IT


	2. Oliver, Orlando, Adam, Charles: When goo...

Mkay, first things first: This is wicked short due to time-munching exams and general fatigue on my part. I wish I could be like Tafadhali and sleep for three hours and be okay for the day. Please R&R!

~~~~~

In a run-down trailer, a large, burly man sat sprawled in a large, lumpy, mottled green chair that must have been a rather nice chair before the moths had developed a fondness for its fibers. This burly man with muscles protruding oddly from his anatomy also looked rather grand and lumpy. But his face must have been rather handsome before its nose had been broken and the general overlook plastered with a permanent sneer and some scars. All in all, this lumpy, large man looked like his lumpy, large chair. 

The man shifted his weight and groaned, letting out a huge emission of gas from his rear as he turned with difficulty onto his side, his greasy pate shining like a platter smeared in melted turkey fat after Thanksgiving. A phone shrilly announced an incoming call, stabbing the smoky, greasy silence several times before kicking it in the head and knocking it over. The man started, piggy eyes wide and searching for this assailant of the smelly peace. Spotting the phone poking out from under a pile of rubbish, he heaved a raspy sigh as his bottom departed from the seat, grubby hands snatching the phone and pounding the 'answer' button. 

"'ello?" He inquired gruffly, still standing with a crossly stupid look adorning his face. There was an impatient voice on the other end, switching constantly from silky to staccato to a controlled panic, then back again. "Oh, hi Mr. Duh Boys," he said wisely, and sat back down with a thump. The trailer shook. "Uh huh, uh huh, sure I can do dat, uh huh…Tuezday? No sorry, I gots to do a poundin'-in at some guy's bat mitzfah." He grinned idiotically. "Oh, Friday? Sure. Uh huh, sure thin' Mr. Duh Boys. Yeah. See you dere." He hung up and kicked the rubbish pile, sending stuff flying everywhere, then bent down to inspect it. He picked up a calendar with a rotting fruit on it, smeared off the carcass and fished around in the pile some more for a pen. He picked one up and concentrated as he wrote in crooked, childish script:

BeET uPp mIsTR dUh bOizez bRuTHaR

He licked his lips, licked the pen, and chucked the calendar elsewhere. 

Back in the mansion, Oliver leaned against the back of his chair contentedly. Everything was settled, and he didn't need to worry any longer. His lean face relaxed and softened as his hazel eyes began to close and his mind closed the shutters of his thoughts. And he slept. 

Pacing his hut was the handsome young man, Orlando, swiftly placing one foot in front of the other and tearing off into the next direction. He rapidly spoke to Adam, saying things that made no sense to the tired mind of the faithful old man. "No, no, no, what should we do? It makes no sense for us to run off into the village…we'll be found as easily as rats in a cage…but what about the baker? He'll hide us…you'll pretend to be his father, I'll pretend to be his son…no, can't trust the baker…anyone will do anything for money…"

Adam leaned forward pleadingly, opening his arms. "Sir, why must we fly?"

Orlando snapped his gait towards the other direction. "Oliver. He will have my hide after what I did to him."

"Sure, sir, he will have some pity."

"None. None at all." Orlando suddenly stopped and dropped on his bed, having had his exhaustion catch up to him. "I'll sleep if I can, and tomorrow, we'll see what will come of this." He rolled onto his side and within five minutes, a gentle, steady snore was heard. Adam watched the young man drift into sleep, and stood slowly to drape a blanket over him. He shuffled to an armchair and tucked himself as best he could into it, and dreamed of youth and valiance. 

~~~~~

I know, I know, it's insanely short. ^_^ It's all I could crank out this week—curse the exams. I'll get more out next week! 

~Artesania


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